


the hands that beckon me to come

by Ellieb3an



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Solo Fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29524482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellieb3an/pseuds/Ellieb3an
Summary: The toss, the run, the spike-serve at the end of it all—Sakusa sees it happen in perfect clarity as if time has slowed and his vision narrows to the center where just Miya exists, all powerful muscle and extraordinary skill and that air of confidence.Sakusa isn’t one of the best receivers in the league for no reason, so his body moves on muscle memory, forearms absorbing the sting of the hit. It’s not enough. But his eyes are still on Miya—on the way his shorts ride up his muscular thighs as he lands, on the bead of sweat dripping down his forehead, on the clench of his fist thrust into the air—when the ball ricochets out of bounds.***Atsumu stays late at practices to work on his new third serve, even when his frustration with it starts throwing off the rest of his game. Sakusa notices and starts hanging back to secretly watch him from the gym doors. He’s fascinated with Atsumu's determination... and more than a little turned on by it, too.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 23
Kudos: 188
Collections: Play Ball Zine Collection





	the hands that beckon me to come

“I’m gonna start workin’ on a new serve,” Miya announces suddenly one day during the Black Jackals’ group weight training.

He’s standing over Sakusa’s head, spotting as he bench presses, eyes on him—he knows from experience that Sakusa will notice if he’s not giving his full attention—even if it’s clear the statement isn’t for only him.

Someone chuckles from the other side of the room, far out of Sakusa’s line of sight. Inunaki, from the sound of it. “Don’t you already have two of the best serves in the league?”

“Yeah,” Miya says. “Could have three of ’em.”

“What third serve are you trying to add?” Meian asks.

Miya’s tongue pokes at the inside of his cheek. “I’ve been studying Orlov’s from the Russian league. No one in Japan has anything like it, and I’m itchin’ to give it a try.”

“That’s great, Atsumu-san,” Hinata, ever the flatterer, says enthusiastically. “I bet you can make it even better!”

As Sakusa breathes through his last rep, Miya’s hands automatically reach out beside Sakusa’s to help him guide the bar back into place. Miya doesn’t break eye contact, though, and raises one brow in a silent question.

Sighing, Sakusa sits up and accepts the fresh towel Miya hands him to wipe away the sweat. (“Yer such a towel waster,” he’d said back when Sakusa first joined the team and Miya noticed his habit of using a fresh towel after each exercise, but now Miya passes them without commentary, used to the routine with Sakusa by now.)

“Do you think it’s smart to mess with it when your serves are already working for you?” Sakusa asks. “The start of the season is only a few months away.”

“What? Ya never see something really cool and just know ya gotta do it too?”

Sakusa wipes the towel over his face before looking back at Miya again. “Not particularly.”

Miya rolls his eyes, but the smile on his lips tells a different story than what comes out of his mouth next. “Well, explains why yer no fun, Omi-kun.”

“I’ll have a lot of fun getting the service ace record while you’re lagging behind with your new incomplete serve, come game season.”

Miya’s smile turns sharp with his narrowed eyes as he barks out a laugh. “Just you wait. I’ll make ya eat yer words.”

***

But as the next few weeks drag on, it seems that Miya is planning on keeping everyone waiting. That is to say… mastering his new serve is not going well.

The serve, it turns out, is a hybrid of a jump serve and a jump floater, but it apparently requires a tricky balance between the two, considering Miya can’t get it right. Sometimes it’s one step too many or a ball tossed too high or the minor difference in the way his palm smacks the ball wrong.

He spends the end of each practice trying to adapt to the new technique. He’s studied video after video, worked with their coach, analyzed recordings of his own attempts. But by the end of the third week, even his other serves—the ones that have placed him in the top five for service aces in the league every season since he got on the starting roster—are completely out of control.

Apparently it’s a snowball effect for Miya. And a curiosity for Sakusa, who has seen him purposefully push other people’s buttons plenty of times before. How far will Miya push himself before he either succeeds or cracks?

It’s when his regular gameplay begins to fall short that watchful gazes from Coach Foster and the training staff turn into concerned glances during hushed conversations at the sidelines. It’s one lost practice match and a “don’t mind!” from Hinata. Another loss and a “we’ll take it next time” from Bokuto. More losses and getting pulled aside for a pep talk by Meian. And none of it seems to encourage Miya in the slightest, that frustrated look on his face remaining, turning into something uglier as his teeth grind and he finally snaps at them to not give him credit where he hasn’t earned it.

“I know I suck right now,” Miya says, dumping some of his water over his own head, completely unmindful of his carefully styled hair. “I’ll get my shit together, alright?”

Sakusa is on his team for the next practice set, but Miya’s tosses are rarely on target and his serves are even worse. One toss to Sakusa goes too wide, too far outside his range to even recover from. It’s an embarrassingly bad set, and Sakusa has never been one to soften his words for anyone else’s sake.

Besides, if Miya is turning down the false encouragement, maybe the opposite will do.

“Thought you were getting your shit together?”

Miya glowers and wipes sweat from his face with the back of his wrist but he doesn’t refute the criticism.

At the sideline, Coach Foster has called forward Fukuda from the other side of the gym where reserve players have been running drills. Eyes glance toward Miya again as they talk.

“Keep going this way and you’re going to lose that starting spot,” Sakusa says.

Miya’s upper lip curls into a snarl, but before Sakusa can find out whatever retort he has for him, Coach Foster is calling out.

“Miya! Go cool off and get your head in the game. Take a lap or run some drills, whatever you need to do. Fukuda, sub in for Miya in the practice match. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

There’s an audible click when Miya snaps his mouth shut over whatever he’d been about to say to Sakusa. The blood has drained from his face as he glances between Sakusa and Coach Foster, realization dawning slowly and turning into dejection before he takes a deep breath, schools his features, and nods. He’s off in a jog before anyone says anything else to him.

***

Later that evening, Sakusa waits—like an idiot, because it’s not like he actually has anything useful to say to Miya.

The foolish thought that maybe he should apologize crosses his mind as he’s showering after practice. He feels a little bad for planting the thought that Miya could be replaced in more than just a practice. Regardless of how annoying the guy is, he’s Sakusa’s teammate and is going through a rough patch. And maybe it wouldn’t do for the benefit of anyone to go kicking him while he’s down.

But Miya still hasn’t come back to the locker room by the time Sakusa has finished washing. He takes his time getting dressed as his remaining teammates filter out, but as he’s sitting there alone for a while, he starts to wonder if Miya slipped out after talking to the coach.

Deciding he’s dodged a bullet, Sakusa hoists his bag over his shoulder and heads out, but the sound of a volleyball bouncing beyond the door of the practice gym draws his attention. It has been left slightly ajar, and Sakusa peeks through the opening to see Miya standing at the edge of the court, one volleyball in hand and a dozen littering the floor on the other side of the net.

Sakusa recognizes the intense look of focus, the wide eyes and slow exhale of breath before Miya tosses and runs. His form is still as impressive as ever—the swing of his arms that helps propel him forward and up, the graceful arch of his body with his heels reaching upward behind him, the way his body snaps forward for his hand to meet the ball.

The end result is not what he desires, though, and he lands, cursing and immediately storming over for another ball.

Miya is the picture of frustration, sweating and panting and stomping around like a bratty child. Until he sets up again for the next serve. Each time, it’s like he turns into a different person, and Sakusa can practically hear the sudden silence of a crowd watching him.

Even as serve after serve fails—out of bounds, into the net, missed entirely from a wild toss—Sakusa finds himself fascinated by this routine, and Miya keeps going. He’s still at it when Sakusa slips out a while later, his presence having gone undetected.

Sakusa thinks maybe he shouldn’t still be thinking about Miya Atsumu as he climbs into bed later that night.

***

Miya doesn’t bother with that new serve in practice again after that, and his overall game steadily improves again. The rest of the team thinks he’s given it up, but Sakusa knows that couldn’t be further from the truth.

He finds himself hanging back after practice nearly every day, dragging out his showers just to be the last one out of the locker rooms. He’s not even sure why he does it, trying to keep this to himself like some big secret, wanting to be the only one who catches a glimpse of Miya working on his serve.

But when his other teammates are all gone for the day, he stands by the doorway to the gym and watches the last one who remains on the court, slamming that ball down again and again no matter how many times it goes wrong.

There’s something mesmerizing about the repetition of it and Miya’s unwavering determination to keep working at this.

Until now, Sakusa has always assumed he and Miya had completely different approaches to volleyball. And it’s true that Miya is wilder and more unpredictable than him, willing to take an extreme risk in the moment if he deems the potential payoff to be worth it. He plays volleyball with a childish excitement and the occasional tendency to run away with himself, but he’s also incredibly relentless in his training and trying to improve, even when he’s already among the players at the top.

Miya Atsumu doesn’t do things halfway.

And Sakusa is surprised to find that he can’t tear his eyes off him.

At first it’s just the serves, the technique, the persistence. Between his errors and cursing himself, Miya appears to be reflective and analytical. Sakusa’s curiosity gets the better of him, and he wants to know if Miya will succeed at this. No, not ‘if ’— _when_. Because Sakusa is sure that it’s only a matter of time, and Miya certainly has the tenacity to see it through to the end.

Miya’s extended practices go on every day for weeks, and the mistakes become less dramatic until it seems like he’s on the verge of breaking through.

Sakusa only ever stays a short while and never announces his presence, and Miya is always too wrapped up in his serves to take notice. Tonight, though…

Sakusa isn’t sure what makes Miya look his way. He hasn’t made a sound, hasn’t even moved. Rather, he’s been frozen in place by the sight of the latest serve—a true hybrid for once, without leaning too hard into the habits of one serve or another. It’s beautiful and elegant, taking an unpredictable trajectory before landing _hard_ just on the correct side of the back line. If Sakusa had been opposite Miya, he wouldn’t have been able to guess the proper receive or adjust for the hard spin of it.

He swears he can feel a shift in the air as Miya lands and watches the ball bounce and roll away. Panting, Miya’s mouth hangs open, and he runs his tongue over his lower lip. After a moment, he stares down at his open hand before clenching it into a fist with a satisfied noise that’s closer to a grunt than the whoop of excitement Sakusa expects.

Then he turns his gaze—still sharp and focused—to the doorway, locking onto Sakusa’s eyes over his shoulder. Sakusa feels pinned there by the look, an entire court away, but Miya says absolutely nothing. No gloating or complaining about being watched, yet somehow that silent stare is more capable of making Sakusa uncomfortable than either of the other options.

When Miya finally turns away to grab another ball from the cart, Sakusa takes that as his cue to leave.

But not before he watches that first successful serve turn into another.

***

Sakusa stares at his ceiling and wills sleep to come, but in the quiet of his bedroom, he keeps hearing the resounding strike of Miya’s hand against the volleyball on repeat.

He tries to focus on the faint sounds of cars passing in the street and— _SMACK_ —Miya hits the ball across the court. He rolls onto his side and even over the creak of his bed— _THUD_ —Miya hits it again. And again. And again. And again.

When Sakusa closes his eyes it’s worse, because there’s Miya running up for the serve, jumping, arching, snapping his body forward. There’s Miya’s hand tossing the ball up with a flick of his wrist and deft fingers, striking the ball with exact precision, closing in a triumphant fist.

Sakusa wants to ignore it. Ignore Miya. Ignore the unexpected way his mind wanders, pondering what those talented, diligent hands could do with something other than a volleyball.

Go figure that the quietest he’s ever actually witnessed Miya Atsumu turns out to be the loudest in his head.

***

_SMACK_. The sound of a volleyball hitting the wall when it spins off Inunaki’s overhand receive with unexpected force. The sound that sets Sakusa’s heart racing early next practice when he’s merely standing in line for serve and receive drills.

The teammates who had been paying attention gape as Miya cheers and Inunaki shakes out the undoubtable sting in his fingers.

“What the hell was _that_?” Inunaki asks.

“That,” Miya says smugly, holding out his hand to catch another ball when Thomas doesn’t immediately step forward to take his own turn, “was my new secret weapon that’s gonna take back my spot as the top server in Japan.”

“Whoa!” Hinata’s wide eyes glow with awe and admiration. “That was so cool! You’re amazing, Atsumu-san!”

Miya preens under Hinata’s flattery and accepts Bokuto’s equal excitement with the most self-satisfied grin Sakusa has ever seen on his face. As the rest of the team joins in the discussion (“I can’t believe you did it,” “I didn’t know you were still working on it,” “You’re relentless, Miya”), Miya glances at Sakusa for a moment. There’s still a smile on his face but an intensity in his eyes that’s something different from his arrogance.

The same uncomfortable feeling as the night before makes Sakusa squirm even after Miya’s eyes leave him, but he finally finds his voice. “But can you do it again?” A challenge. A hope to see it this close a second time.

“Why don’t ya try receivin’ and find out for yerself, Omi-kun?”

Inunaki steps out of the way, and Miya looks poised and confident as Sakusa settles on the other side of the net, preparing for the attack.

Miya takes his four steps and turns, and it’s like a fire coursing through Sakusa the moment he directs that focused gaze on him. He feels the flames licking at the back of his neck and warming his sweaty hands and flickering to life low in his gut. His heart pounds in his ears when Miya moves.

The toss, the run, the spike-serve at the end of it all—Sakusa sees it happen in perfect clarity as if time has slowed and his vision narrows to the center where just Miya exists, all powerful muscle and extraordinary skill and that air of confidence.

Sakusa isn’t one of the best receivers in the league for no reason, so his body moves on muscle memory, forearms absorbing the sting of the hit. It’s not enough. But his eyes are still on Miya—on the way his shorts ride up his muscular thighs as he lands, on the bead of sweat dripping down his forehead, on the clench of his fist thrust into the air—when the ball ricochets out of bounds.

Sakusa understands then. Maybe it’s not just the serve. Maybe it’s not just the desire to receive them. Miya pulls at the neck of his t-shirt to wipe his face and skin peeks out beneath the lower hem. At the glimpse of sharp, cut v-lines that he’s seen dozens of times before but seem somehow more unbearable right now, Sakusa feels the slight tightening of his shorts and excuses himself for a water break to calm down before he has a real problem.

Although, that may be too late… It’s startling to realize just how badly he wants Miya Atsumu.

***

“I see the way you’ve been watchin’ me.” A low voice, breath tickling Sakusa’s ear as it brushes past, sends a chill down his spine.

Sakusa struggles to control his own breathing as Miya’s firm body presses him into the locker room wall. Everyone else is long gone, and in the haze of thoughts that can’t seem to move past Miya’s hand—the one he smashes those powerful, incredibly hot serves with—sliding beneath the waistband of his shorts, Sakusa can’t recall how he even ended up in this situation. He presses his own hands flat to the wall behind him, unsure of where else to place them, but Miya doesn’t seem bothered by his inability to respond.

He turns his face toward Sakusa, his lips grazing below Sakusa’s ear when he talks again. “Tell me what ya like, Omi-kun.” There’s only the layer of Sakusa’s boxer-briefs between his growing erection and Miya’s hand as he palms him before slowly curling his fingers around Sakusa’s cock. Sakusa can feel the curve of Miya’s smile into his neck when he jerks his hips into the touch.

“You’ve got a thing for my hands, Omi? You’ve been thinking about them touchin’ ya, I can tell.”

“It’s not like that,” Sakusa manages faintly past the lump in his throat, but even he doesn’t believe his own voice right now. No hope that Miya is buying it, not the way the cocky asshole is leaning backward to smile at him like the cat that swallowed the desperately horny canary.

The hand that’s not toying with Sakusa’s dick presses to his cheek, and Sakusa is very aware of all ten points where Miya’s fingers are touching him with far less delicacy than they set a volleyball—the ones in his shorts, the four pressing into his cheek, the thumb dragging down his lower lip.

Sakusa’s cock twitches with excitement and Miya licks his lips.

“It’s not like that?” he repeats playfully, but the look in his eyes is dark and dangerous like his focus during a serve as he presses his thumb into Sakusa’s mouth in time with a gentle tug of his cock.

Sakusa opens his mouth without a second thought and lets out the faintest moan when Miya sticks two fingers into it.

It’s a slow motion, as if Miya is testing the waters to see just how deep it goes, just how far Sakusa will let him push it. To Sakusa’s own surprise, the answer is “pretty fucking far” because a fire ignites low in his stomach as Miya reaches the back of his throat and nearly chokes him on those stupid fucking setter’s fingers.

Sakusa has seen hunger before. He’s seen it on the court, seen it in other players when they lose themselves in the excitement of a play, a point, a victory. He’s recognized it in Miya’s eyes, in particular, since high school. He’s been mesmerized by it these past few weeks.

But Sakusa realizes that until this moment, he has never truly _felt_ it himself. Now here he is, gagging on a mouthful of Miya’s fingers and bucking his hips into Miya’s hand, and Sakusa is _starving_ like he’s never known before.

“Oh Omi,” Miya says, his voice sickly sweet and satisfied as his fingers stop fucking Sakusa’s mouth and drag down his chin, leaving a trail of Sakusa’s saliva.

The only thing Sakusa wants more than Miya’s hands on him is for Miya to shut up. He surges forward to grab Miya by both sides of his face, grip tight and demanding. Their mouths collide together in something uncoordinated and messy and urgent that is hot and wet like a kiss but feels far too provocative to merely call it that. Miya’s tongue—with its inability to stay put on a good day—is trying to fuck Sakusa’s mouth harder than his fingers did.

Sakusa is more focused on the hands sliding down his shorts and underwear, just low enough to free Sakusa’s cock.

“Time to show you what these hands can really do,” Miya says.

His hand is warm and thick—feeling much different than Sakusa’s own long, lean fingers—as it closes around him and immediately takes up a slow rhythm.

_One, two, three, four_ strokes, like the four steps before his serve, and then he rubs his thumb over the glistening wet bead leaking out the tip of Sakusa’s cock, and Sakusa trembles again. It encourages Miya onward, his rhythm picking up when Sakusa moans and jerks into him.

And he’s right. Miya’s hands are so fucking talented. Like they’re meant to set a volleyball and serve a volleyball and do all the volleyball-related things but especially to fit perfectly around Sakusa’s dick and jerk him off into oblivion.

***

Sakusa wakes up in sticky pajama bottoms and bedsheets and with a sense of private shame he hasn’t known since he was a teenage boy thinking about Wakatoshi-kun. Throwing his arm over his sweaty forehead and groaning, he only takes a brief moment before the disgust of lying in his own mess pulls him out of bed to strip the sheets. The phantom touch of Miya’s hands lingers all the while, and as he steps into the shower to clean himself up, Sakusa frowns down at the way his erection hasn’t even completely gone away.

He needs to get over this ridiculous obsession with Miya, and fast. (Easier said than done.)

***

It only builds from there—the frustration, the craving, the magnetism that is Miya Atsumu on a volleyball court drawing Sakusa’s attention to him before he even realizes it’s happening. Sakusa does his best to ignore Miya, but that’s impossible on a team together as the new season begins. There are more dreams like the first and more nights of lost sleep than he can count, but at least he manages to keep a lid on this around the team.

Then the match against the Schweiden Adlers arrives, and Miya finally lets loose that new serve for the world to see.

Somehow, Sakusa knows when it’s the moment. Miya hasn’t even attempted it through the first two sets of the game, but fresh off a third service ace, his focus becomes so intense that Sakusa practically feels it radiating off of him. He turns to Miya instead of watching the other side of the net like he ought to.

It’s beautiful, more beautiful, maybe, than any of the times he’s done it in practices. Those four steps and the shift from a jump float approach that ends in a spike serve at the very last step. The success as the spectators roar with excitement and their opponents are stunned.

Nothing is more beautiful than Miya’s satisfaction, though, and Sakusa feels the thrill of this journey’s destination after all the long nights Miya put into it, unwilling to give it up once he’d begun. He has to tear his eyes away before Miya’s whole existence ruins his gameplay.

But after the win, that night in the hotel and the flight back are an agonizing exercise in failing to keep Miya off his mind. He returns to his apartment exhausted and irritated and far too pent-up with… everything.

He’s just showered and is about to turn in for an early night when he gets the email notification from coaching staff that the match footage has been sent out. After Hinata managed to outshine him as one of the team’s strongest receivers, he’s been wanting to rewatch some of the plays to keep his own errors in mind for later. He sits in bed with his laptop, figuring that some game analysis will be a suitable way to wind down.

Terrible idea.

Match footage means seeing Miya’s serve again from another perspective. It means seeing everything Miya does from outside the court—every set, serve, receive, dump. No one touches the ball more than the setter, after all, but it’s about more than that when Sakusa can’t manage to watch his own gameplay.

He only has eyes for Miya.

On the screen, Miya laughs with exhilaration when Sakusa scores a sharp cut shot off of a particularly tough backward set that he made look easy, and pressure coils in Sakusa’s gut. Miya soaks up the cheers of the crowd in response to his service ace before snapping a fist closed to silence them for the next, and Sakusa’s cock jumps at this simple act that he’s mocked to Miya’s face before.

Sakusa’s face grows hot with embarrassment even in the privacy of his own home, but those dreams that won’t leave him alone each night pervade his thoughts even now and—

_“You’ve got a thing for my hands, Omi?”_

Yes. Yes, Sakusa very much does.

It feels particularly wrong like this—watching a video that’s been sent to the entire team for professional use—but Miya’s tongue is hanging out of his stupid mouth and Sakusa’s hand is eagerly freeing his own cock from his pants.

He strokes his hand along the length with a light grip and heaves a sigh at how sensitive it already feels just from the sight of Miya’s tongue and thighs and broad back and _hands_. Sakusa may be watching a volleyball match on the screen, but in his mind, every touch of Miya’s fingers on that volleyball is like he’s personally handling Sakusa’s dick with them.

_“Time to show you what these hands can really do.”_

Moaning Miya’s name, Sakusa rubs his thumb over the tip of it and shudders. He sets a slow, steady rhythm with his hand—but no, it’s that imaginary grip of Miya’s instead, so warm and strong. It feels so good, better than Sakusa’s own does, and he throws his head back into his pillows, shutting his eyes to allow the fantasy to take over.

Sakusa wonders what it would be like to have Miya’s fingers all over him—grasping at his arm, cupping the side of his face, sliding over his chest, finding the dip of his hip bone, digging roughly into his hair.

Sakusa hates himself a little for wanting it so badly, but he entertains the notion—as he recalls the way Miya turned that volleyball-hungry gaze on him as if to say “watch me” before smashing a service ace—that Miya wants it, too. The back of his shoulder burns where Miya slapped it in appreciation of a successful point near the end of the match, and Sakusa keens at the memory.

_Fuck_ , that asshole isn’t even actually here, yet his phantom hands are conducting a symphony of needy groans and quick breaths and hungry murmurs of his name.

Sakusa’s heel slips against his sheets when his hips jerk into his hand of their own accord. Commentary from his laptop brings him back to the present and he opens his eyes again only for the heat in his stomach to burn hotter and ache harder when he sees that serve, the one that nearly sent him spiraling during the actual match. That perfect, triumphant first hybrid serve.

Miya spikes it hard and Sakusa’s hand moves faster.

His heart is hammering in his chest and his mind goes blank as the pleasure reaches its peak. With Miya’s name on his lips, Sakusa thrusts into his hands again, hips arching off the bed as he spills his release, hot all over his stomach and his hand.

He lies there flushed and out of breath, his eyes slowly opening again to stare at the ceiling. He wants to get up and shower again, but for now his limbs feel too heavy and numb to do much of anything.

The match recording still plays on his laptop, but he feels too shameful to look at it again, even to turn it off.

Cheers blast from the speakers.

_“Miya Atsumu claims another untouched service ace!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!! Link to the twitter post for this fic is [here](https://twitter.com/3llieb3an/status/1362223341961158658?s=21) if you’d like to share that :)
> 
> I wrote this for Play Ball Zine, and was lucky enough to collab with glitterdecayart, who illustrated it so beautifully. So please go check that out [here](https://twitter.com/GlitterdecayArt/status/1360816287304179714?s=20)!


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